


Aren't I the Lucky One

by bioplast_hero



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 1989, 80s Lotor Wears Track Suits, Alternative Universe - 80s AU, Family Feels, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, M/M, Pining, Sheith blink and you miss it, Slow Burn, Summer Love, aliens are real, roller skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioplast_hero/pseuds/bioplast_hero
Summary: Lotor crashes on Earth in 1989, finding there's almost no hope of contacting his command ship from this primitive rock.Almostno hope. What he does find is Matt Holt— generous to a fault, if a bit odd, and strangely obsessed with 'extraterrestrials' which he has never known to exist before now. And he and the Holt family might be his ticket home.In the meantime, Lotor makes do with the situation and, maybe, begrudgingly, finds something on this backwater world that he never knew he was missing.
Relationships: Matt Holt/Lotor
Comments: 21
Kudos: 26
Collections: Lotor Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Meant for Lotor Week 2020 but this one really got out of hand. This is 1989, minus the queerphobia bc I can't with that. And before you ask, _yes_ I was alive in the 80s kjhgkjhg...
> 
> Artist: [Kiki / FrenchPopsicle](https://twitter.com/FrenchPopsicle) made the character art for the cover. Matt's wide eyes here are such a mood. There's more surprise art in the coming chapters, too. 👀

As his fighter hurtled toward the surface, Lotor reviewed the series of events that led him here.

He’d tracked the elemental signature of one of the Voltron lions to this remote planet, peopled by a race that hardly qualified as space-faring. This would be like taking candy from a baby.

His generals were... occupied at present, playing cat and mouse through a neighboring sector with a cruiser captained by one of his father’s miserable underlings. They weren’t openly hostile, but they weren’t exactly friends. With Acxa in command, they seemed to have succeeded in diverting Warlord Dhox’s attention from Lotor’s more discrete craft.

It was all going perfectly well, until the unexpected radiation storm knocked out several primary systems in his short-range flyer. The prince knew he’d have to risk landing at whatever cost.

And cost it did.

One engine already down, the tailspin churned bile into his stomach as dawn broke over the landscape below. His instruments indicated his ungraceful descent had yet to knock him too far off course from the lion he sought.

Cursing under his breath, Lotor completed the ejection sequence before he chanced becoming a permanent impression on the hull. 

He engaged his jetpack to slow his fall, teeth rattling in the aftermath of the somewhat-distant crash. The day was young and he already had a headache.

“Suppose I’ll have to walk.”

^^^

With sweat dripping between his shoulder blades, Matt balances the last box of his personal effects on the top of the teetering stack and slams the trunk closed. He’s rewarded with only a  _ slight _ crunch. He didn’t remember packing this much when he headed to college in the fall, but the end his freshman year presented him with all sorts of detritus— plus the usual personal engineering projects that were just endemic to his personality. At least he has  _ those _ to show for the past year.

The door to his battered red Corolla creaks mournfully as he drags it open, slumping behind the wheel. It’s an unseasonably warm mountain day in the Rockies, but that’s nothing; the drive through Moab and on to Flagstaff is going to be hellishly hot even in May. Matt did have the sense to get the AC checked. It functions, kind of, and only sometimes overheats the engine.

Shoving his hair out of his eyes, he squints through the windshield at his first-year residence hall and waits for the promised wave of nostalgia. As he feared, nothing comes. He thought he’d feel right at home with a campus full of wannabe engineers, but it turns out most engineers aren’t the weird losers and nerds that he hoped.

His grade report sits on the dash. The envelope from the registrar is unopened, but Matt knows it isn’t good. He’s not particularly eager to take a look. He prefers to feel like he’s making his own decisions, a man of his own making.  _ Boldly going _ … where?

What if he just didn’t come back for Sophomore year?

A loud knock on the windshield startles him from his thoughts with a shriek.

“Dammit, Shiro!” Matt growls as he cranks the windshield down manually. It’s not hot yet, but a couple strokes of that is enough to have him sweating again.

“Hey, why the long face,” the golden boy smiles. “It’s summer. Find time to enjoy it, alright?”

“Remember to go outside once in a while,” Keith’s voice snarks from behind Shiro’s hulking form. Shiro tries not to smile. It’s a good effort, 6/10.

Shiro steps out of the way to reveal Keith perched on the back of Shiro’s motorcycle, red helmet in both hands.

“Says the palest emo kid I know!” Matt calls back.

“I don’t tan,” Keith shrugs. “Something in my genes.”

“Can’t believe you’re sticking around here,” Matt says low to Shiro. “Not gonna be the same this summer without you.”

Shiro’s smile is shy. “Well, I have the apartment here now. It just made sense.”

Matt quirks an eyebrow. “And the hot young twunk to bed in said apartment, let’s not forget. Priorities.”

“Hey now,” Shiro tries to frown but doesn’t manage it; he’s in too high spirits. “I’ve got my senior year to plan for. I might be able to help out around the department,” Shiro drums his metal fingertips on his black helmet. “Besides, we’ll come visit. You’ll be the first to know when we’re headed your way!” Shiro ruffs his hair then slaps the beat-up paint job as he steps back. “Take good care of Madeleine!”

Matt crinkles his nose in disgust. “Her name is Maxine!” He strokes the wheel suggestively to make his point. “And we’ll take good care of each other.”

^^^

Lotor crests a rise in the rocky landscape, greeted at last by the smoking hull of his vessel with the starboard wing impacted and angled roughly skyward. The cockpit that he abandoned in all due haste looks to be engulfed in a crater of ruddy sandstone.

As he feared, there’s almost nothing to salvage, though he packs up a few things that might come in handy. His imperial flight suit is capable only of short-range communications; in order to reach his crew, Lotor will have to collaborate with some of the locals. Hopefully some of their kind can be persuaded to assist? The prince is not above rewarding cooperation.

The day is young, and though the arid landscape is already distastefully hot, the temperature won’t peak for hours more. And yet people deign to inhabit this insufferable place. Some, at least, judging by the low-frequency electromagnetic field he’s reading, bearing 254º. It will take two varga to reach the source by foot.

Lotor reengages the suit’s helmet with climate control and starts his descent back toward the valley floor and, hopefully, toward aid.

^^^

“Max, play something else,” Matt yawns. “This elevator music is putting me to sleep.”

_ “I don’t know that,” _ her disembodied voice chirps pleasantly.  _ “Please state the FM or AM radio frequency.” _

Matt frowns at the bundle of wires trailing from the dash down to the circuit-boards balanced where the cup holders should be.

“Still a bit literal, aren’t you,” he muses. “Well, work in progress.”

He frowns into the ensuing silence.

“Hey Maxine?”

_ “Yes, master?” _ Her pre-recorded voice responds innocently enough. There was always the risk that anyone riding in his car would peg Matt for a virgin simply by the way that particular protocol still makes him blush. He’s not about to change it, though. He kind of likes the attention.

“Access remote music library, will you please.”

_ “Accessing,” _ she replies. The whirring sound from powering up the drive’s fan is probably not the healthiest of sounds. But a minute later he sighs with relief when the voice states,  _ “Please make a selection.” _

Matt comes to a decision as he exits the interstate and accelerates onto Route 191. “Play album Subhumans by artist Worlds Apart. And turn it up to 10.”

The opening drum riff has him bobbing his head and slapping the wheel’s vinyl cover even before the bass kicks in.

“Woo! Now that’s more like it!”

His foot is heavy on the gas, staring down the straightaway with not another vehicle for miles and miles. He flies.

^^^

_ Please, please tell me now! _

_ Is there something I should know! _

Matt screams along to the radio, his notes at least marginally off-key. His eyes catch on a smudge on the highway up ahead, hardly a flicker of something. Probably another mirage, Matt thinks, as the dark gleam disappears behind a slight rise.

_ Is there something I should say—  _

_ that would make you come my way?  _

_ Do you feel the same 'cause you don't let it show!  _

_ Ooooh! _

Soaring along to the key change, Matt feels the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders. Or maybe that’s the bit of air he’s getting flying over the crest of the rise. By the time the harmonica riff starts, Matt blinks and slams on the breaks as he speeds toward a tall figure standing on the dotted yellow line.

In a blur, Matt swerves his car askew onto the gravel shoulder, his tires skidding and smoking. He manages not to overcorrect and screeches to a halt with three wheels back on the pavement and his heart racing.

“Whoa!” he pants, hunched over his mostly-white knuckles gripping the wheel.

Matt blinks incredulously at the imposing figure in his rear-view mirror, taking in the probably-seven-feet of wannabe astronaut. And what the hell is that suit? 

He knows what it’s  _ not. _ It’s not US military. With a career commander for a father, Matt thinks he would know if that were some kind of standard-issue.

Private skydiving suit? No idea. It looks more like Bruce Wayne over here was aiming for that superhero vibe. Or supervillain. 

Matt fumbles for the handle and clamors out of the car. “Hey! Hey, you okay there, buddy?”

Matt tries and fails to make out the man’s face through the visor at ten yards before taking a few more steps in his direction.

“Wanna get out of the road?” Matt gestures, almost pleasing. “Highway’s not a safe place to hang out!” He waves his arms, indicating the shoulder as if that wasn’t already perfectly clear.

Space man takes a few steps in the indicated direction and then a few steps in Matt’s direction, reaching for his helmet. Matt tries not to be overly focused on how the flight suit seems both terrifically armored and seamlessly flexible around his joints. Matt definitely wants a closer look at that technology.

He’s also ignoring the sinuous movements of the person inside. It’s a little terrifying, and together with the wicked techno-getup speaks to far too many of Matt’s… interests.

Then the space cadet lifts his helmet, shaking loose a mane of brilliant white hair, perfectly coiffed as though it weren’t at least 95 degrees. But the stranger is pale as death, a sickly color of— Matt blinks.  _ Purple. _ Mister Rapunzel space man is decidedly purple.

“Get out,” Matt utters like a complete idiot.

“Greetings, citizen of Earth,” the purple man says earnestly with a polite smile. 

_ Okay, do not wig out, _ Matt decides.  _ Speaks English? Check. British accent? Big time. A hobbyist for sure, probably an eccentric one, who’s just lost. Gotta be. _

“I am Lotor, son of Zarkon, Emperor  _ pro tem _ of the Galra empire. My ship crashed and I am afraid I will require assistance contacting my command vessel.”

Matt laughs. “This has got to be the weirdest place for a costume party, man.” Matt eyes the low luster of his ‘metal’ armor. “Aren’t you dying in that suit? Is there a new Marvel out, or DC? I used to keep up with comics but, you know, college,” he snorts.

Mister Big Purple pulls up short, his smile falling into something a bit more somber. “Forgive me, I am unsure of the meaning of this  _ Marvel _ of which you speak. I have much to learn of Earth’s culture and,” gesturing down the open road, “what did you call this?”

“Highway,” Matt croaks. Because at this point Mister Prince of the Galaxy or whatever is standing at two arm’s length and even the creases of his eyes and the moist inside of his lips are flawlessly purple.

“That’s not paint, is it,” Matt squeaks. “I’m sorry, like, who did you say you are again?”

The stranger straightens with pride, as though he wasn’t already a towering seven feet of outrageous alien man. The movement tosses his hair with a little flourish, a long strand bobbling regally in the air. Matt manages not to swallow his tongue, but it’s a close call.

“Prince Lotor,” he inclines his head downward in a deferential gesture that Matt finds himself really eager to imitate to avoid causing some intergalactic incident. 

_ First Contact. _ The thought hits him like a bread truck. What are the odds? Legit, this is Matt’s  _ thing. _ He’s been training for this his whole geek life.

_ This can’t be happening, it’s finally happening, aliens here, right now— _

“And your name?” The prince flashes a teasing grin. Matt already forgot his own name from the magnitude of his shock, but that playful look certainly didn’t help him recover it.

“Um,” he swallows, “uh, Matt! Matt, Matt Holt, that’s me. My name,” he points to himself and then rapidly cringes, extending his hand instead in an effort to look assertive and friendly. The gesture dies on the vine when Lotor just stares at it. Matt feels his soul start to wither.

“Ah, pardon me,” Lotor blinks down at his own gloved hand and unfastens the gauntlet before reaching to meet Matt’s handshake with very purple fingers. “It is a gesture of greeting, then. Well met,” the prince smiles, then nods at the car. “I do hope that your vehicle is undamaged.”

A slightly deranged laugh bubbles up from Matt’s throat. “Heh heh, yeah, um. Better off than yours, I guess? No, that was a joke, um,” he heaves a sigh. “You said you crashed.”

“Yes.”

“Right there, in the Arches National Park.”

Lotor blinks and squints as though he’s scanning for the rise of smoke on the horizon. “It would seem that way, yes.”

“You’re going to… fix your ship?”

“Ah, no. I regret that will not be possible. It is not salvageable. I was hoping, in fact, that you might be able to direct me to your people’s nearest communications array.”

“You… want to make a call. ET phone home.”

Lotor’s brow furrows at the expression. “Yes?”

“Just a quick off-planet call,” Matt purses his lips and kicks a small red rock from underfoot across the dusty road.  _ Perfect. _ And here Matt has never wanted so desperately  _ not _ to let someone down. “To your ship that is… in orbit?”

“No, but it is in a nearby sector of space.”

Matt heaves a sigh. “Well, your highness. I think we might have a problem.”

^^^

“I believe we may be having a misunderstanding,” Lotor says smoothly from the passenger seat as Matt barrels down the highway. It was no small feat to make room for the alien’s impossibly long legs so they could get back on the road; 40 minutes of rearranging his crap and several colorful curses later, Matt was finally able to slide the passenger seat back to the farthest position. Even then, Lotor had to fold himself rather strategically to fit.

“Surely your people have the means to conduct interstellar communications? I know yours is hardly a space-faring race, but—”

“I’m sorry, your highness, sir,” Matt squeaks. “I don’t think  _ you _ understand. That level of technology is… not happening. I mean, we have Voyager 2 on it’s way to Neptune!”

“Neptune?”

“Yeah, the eighth planet in our solar system.”

“What is the purpose of this mission to the eighth planetoid?” 

“Exploration!” Matt huffs a laugh. “That mission is totally the first of its kind. And it takes a dish that’s, like, 70 meters across to pick up that signal,” he mutters, glancing to his right.

Lotor frowns. “How medieval.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Matt sighs. “And humans don’t all just have those lying around at home.”

The pout on the alien prince’s face could be legendary.

“Look,” Matt puts an effort into gentling his voice. “Don’t freak out. I know you’re a hella long way from home. We- we’ll think of something, okay? It just… might not be as quick of a stopover as you wanted.”

Lotor nods, eyes on the horizon with a look that makes all too clear that he’s had enough bad news for one day. “I understand.”

“In the meantime, I can get you back to my place. You know, wrap you in a towel and pedal you home in my totally fly bike basket,” Matt giggles.

Lotor tilts his head inquisitively, a strand of his white hair bobbing as he does. It’s… cute. 

“Is this vehicle not suitable for further conveyance?”

Matt puffs a small sigh. “Never mind. But we should definitely watch some movies while you’re here. And hey! I’m pretty good with technology!”

Lotor’s face is a polite mask, but Matt doesn’t miss the way his eyes flit to the nest of cables and circuit boards.

“Hey now, beggars can’t be choosers,” he bristles. “Besides, between Pidge and me, and my dad and his work, we might be your best bet on planet Earth. Probably. Maybe. So… do you want help or not?”

Lotor glances over at Matt while the human tries to pretend he doesn’t feel his eyes on him.  _ Just watch the road, Holt. _ It starts to seem like the prince won’t reply at all, until he does.

“I would be most grateful for your assistance.”

^^^

“Your Earth music is… interesting,” Lotor calls over yet another new wave ballad. “Do you always play it so loudly?”

Matt laughs. “Relax, Max,” he shouts over the din of orchestra hits and road vibration. His system adjusts the volume down to a comfortable 20 percent.

“I believe I told you, my name is Lotor.”

“Yes, but her name is Maxine,” Matt replies, gesturing to the mass of components that serve as his rudimentary ‘onboard computer.’ It’s a prototype he’s been working on. “She responds to voice commands,” Matt waggles his eyebrows.

Lotor looks intrigued. “Scan for enemy combatants.”

After a whir of consideration, the system doesn’t recognize any programmed keywords. 

_ “I don’t know that.” _

Matt purses his lips. “Well, erm, she responds to  _ some _ voice commands. I mean, she can’t make you a smoothie or anything.” Matt nods toward the dash. “Try something that a car can do.”

Lotor tilts his head contemplating his options. “Increase velocity by one unit of standard measure.”

_ “Sorry, I don’t know that,”  _ she chirps.  _ ”Please state the FM or AM radio frequency.” _

“Well,” Lotor grits out irritably, “is it within your power to adjust the environmental controls, at the very least?” He finger-combs his hair away from his neck for a moment. “It is stifling in here.”

“No need to yell,” Matt shrinks a bit in his seat. He’s comfortable enough, but then again he’s dressed for summer in the desert, not wearing a spacesuit. “Do, uh- do you need a change of clothes? I might have something that would… stretch. It’d be a snug fit.”

“My attire is not at issue,” the prince grumbles. “I cannot believe your people have not terraformed this continent to be suited to supporting civilized life.”

“You, uh, make a good point,” Matt’s laugh sounds strained even to his ears. “And we’re not even in Arizona yet.”

“Why would anyone live here!” Lotor shouts, eyes flaring and fangs seeming to lengthen. It sends a shiver down Matt’s spine.

“Okay, chill, I just,” Matt raises his hands in a placating gesture before settling them back on the wheel, “this is the best my girl can do. The AC’s working better than it has in months. Just… the desert isn’t the place for space suits? You do see that, right?” He gestures at the horizon, heat shimmering on the well-baked earth.

Instead of replying, Lotor gathers his hair to wrap once around his neck and bends to place the helmet back over his head. He slides his hands back into both gloves and once it all clicks into place he adjusts the dial on his digital display with an irritable huff.

“Alright, cranky pants, suit yourself,” Matt huffs. 

Lotor doesn’t even try to hide his scowl.

_ “I can still hear you, you know.” _

^^^

Lotor blinks himself awake to find the human driving quietly through rocky scrub-covered hills and curving toward the setting sun. 

After settling into his suit for a chance at decent climate control, Lotor must have fallen asleep. The somewhat erratic motion and vibration of manual on-terrain transport is soothing in a most unexpected way.

Lotor can’t remember the last time he nodded off unexpectedly, after years of training discipline in all things. What if some threat arose, or the Earthling tried to take advantage in some way while he was sleeping soundly? Yet that thought didn’t strike him as quite right. The human seemed well-intentioned, even if not all of his bolts were tightened fully.

Stealthily, Lotor observes his host whose eyes are steady on the road and flaring amber in the dusk light. The radio is switched off and the young man appears lost in thought, his face relaxed— all but for a slight furrow in his brow. Lotor wonders what worry might put that crease there.

Matt glances in his direction, eyes widening a fraction as he finds Lotor looking back.

“You’re awake,” Matt mutters, glancing back at the road. “Seemed you most definitely needed the nap,” he signals as he slows for his turn, heading into what appears to be an area consisting of private residences.

Lotor reaches for his helmet and disengages the mechanism. The heat isn’t so objectionable as it was before, and the breeze from Matt’s half-lowered window is actually pleasant as he unwinds his long hair.

“I needed a bit of air,” Matt tilts his head toward the window, “if that’s okay.”

“Quite.” Lotor feels his face relax, almost smiling to himself. “Your cars are an interesting adaptation,” Lotor replies conversationally. “Although the roads themselves seem like an elaborate infrastructure problem. Better to design your craft to hover than pave the entire continent in order to cross it, no?”

“Roads?” Matt replies in a funny, exuberant tone. “Where we’re going, we don’t need roads!” He flashes Lotor a bright smile.

Lotor blinks at him. The vehicle is clearly road-dependent, and beyond that the outburst means nothing to him.

“Sorry,” Matt mutters as he appears to deflate. “I hardly know how to talk to most  _ humans,” _ his laugh is a reedy, nervous sound. “I’m probably not making an awesome first impression, am I?”

Lotor feels his features soften. The boy has been nothing but generous, really— what with offering transport and shelter, even clothing should he deign to accept. Not to mention the further promise to do his best to help Lotor get out of the bind he finds himself in. He certainly never meant to make the young man feel inadequate in his aid.

“I could not imagine a better host, under the circumstances,” Lotor offers gently. The boy blinks at him in obvious surprise. “I am indebted to you. Sincerely.”

The smile that breaks over Matt’s face is warm like the light of their setting sun. Lotor doesn’t know what to make of the sentiment this stirs in him. Certainly he needs the young man’s help. Yes, he will endeavor to keep his good will. But he finds that he also wants to be the cause of that smile.

“Wow,” Matt murmurs, then laughs. “I bet you say that to all the aliens you meet.”

Lotor frowns. “I most certainly do not.”

“Okay,” Matt’s eyes are on the road again but he can’t hide the way the smile still tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’ve never met an alien before today.”

“I gathered,” Lotor grins as he examines their surroundings. The dwellings they pass seem ample but not ostentatious, with curious features that will require further study to explain. Each one appears to be surrounded by a fence that must be symbolic at most, a bit of flimsy material isolating one small holding from the next.

“I always believed, you know?” Matt muses, his tone wistful. “Like, in all the vastness of the universe, there must be other intelligent life. Extraterrestrials. Advanced civilizations populating other worlds, traveling the cosmos!” Matt sighs. “I wanted it to be true. And I really didn’t really know what to expect.”

“I am not what you expected,” Lotor says neutrally.

“Um, no,” Matt laughs. He meets Lotor’s raised eyebrow with a slight blush creeping over his delicately-freckled skin. Matt’s eyes flick over his lips and then back to the road as he slows the vehicle and turns into the driveway of a quaint-looking two-story residence, under the shadow of a massive tree.

“I mean, come on, man,” it’s Matt’s turn to level him with a look. “You speak English?  _ Really? _ That’s gotta be some Gene Roddenberry trick, for sure.”

^^^

Lotor tries to follow the young human’s lead as he is steered not towards the main entrance but instead down a narrow garden path along the fence line and into the rear of the dwelling.

His host is looking nervous, straining to peer into windows. It occurs to Lotor all at once that this is a poorly-executed attempt at stealth.

“Are we not allowed to be here?”

Matt flinches. “Ah, that’s not it, not exactly,” he replies softly, pulling open the door to an outbuilding of some sort that smells strongly of potting soil. He waves Lotor inside, pulling a chain which serves to activate a dim incandescent light. “Alright, now, you just hide in here. I’ll come up with something.”

Lotor peers around, ducking so as to not thump his head on the angled ceiling. It’s a tidy space, well-tended despite the insistent mineral smell. There are neat rows of clay pots in many sizes, tools neatly hung on the wall, and a roughly-hewn wood bench that smells strongly of the emerald green polymer it is lacquered in. 

“Ah, no,” Lotor says flatly.

“N-no?”

“No, Matt, I will not reside in your potting studio while there is a perfectly good residence right there,” Lotor gestures in the direction of the house with one hand while picking up a dusty sunhat from the table’s surface in the other. He looks it over before quietly setting it back down, muttering, “As if this planet isn’t primitive enough.”

“I’m so fucked,” Matt squeaks, his shoulders hiking closer to his earlobes each passing tick.

His growing terror does give Lotor pause. “Is there some danger you’ve not deigned to inform me of?” he glowers.

“No,” Matt whispers dramatically, flailing his arms a bit with nervous energy. “I just… don’t know how to tell my mom that I met an Alien Warlord but he’s, like, actually pretty nice so I brought him home?”

Lotor wrinkles his nose in irritation. “Warlord? Excuse me, I am the rightful heir to the throne—”

“Not the point,” Matt’s voice strains, scrubbing his hand over his face. “You sure you couldn’t just…” the human gestures meekly to the bench, which is all of a meter and a half long. There are a couple of dusty yellow cushions piled on it, at the very least, but even a runt wouldn’t call it a bed.

Lotor holds Matt’s eyes as he gestures to the length of his own legs. The boy seems to catch on to the question of  _ what do you expect me to do with these? _ Matt inhales deeply and begins to pace, quite a feat considering the small space.

“Totally, yes, I hear you, but… how about at least through dinner? Mom is  _ very  _ particular about family dinner, especially on weekends when dad is home, and I haven’t been at home since Christmas,” he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Just, an hour? Please,” Matt begs. 

Lotor feels the way the nerves around his eyes start to bunch and twitch in frustration. This is becoming most tiresome. But what is he to do, when this is literally his only ally on this god-forsaken planet at present?

“I don’t know what your ‘hours’ are, Earthling, but if the sun has fully set and I have not yet seen your return, then you  _ will _ find me calling at your front door and we will go with  _ my _ plan then. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes!” Matt squawks, clamping a hand over his mouth the next moment to stifle the sound. “Yes,” he continues much more quietly but no less excitably. “Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,” and without a pause Matt backs out of the shed and gently swings the door closed with a subtle click.

Lotor squints through the single windowpane past some blossoming vine to see the sun low on the horizon.

“Time is ticking,” Lotor mutters to no one but himself.

^^^

Matt slinks toward the shed in the gathering dark. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a voice from behind.

“You like to court danger, it seems,” Lotor drawls haughtily with a single eyebrow arched as Matt whips around to face him.

“W-why are you out here?” he whispers. “What are you wearing?”

Even in the shadows under the lilac bush, Matt can see that the alien prince has now shed his armor for the skin-tight lining beneath. He looks ready for aerobics class or biking the Tour de France with one of those paper numbers pinned to his back.

_ Space spandex. _

It’s… not a bad look.

“Earlier you wanted me to change my attire, but now you are confused when I have done so,” Lotor replies in a low tone of restraint. It sends a chill up Matt’s spine, reminding him he really has no idea who he is dealing with. “Besides, I waited well over a varga for you to dine and became restless. I was considering making my way in through a window.”

Matt blinks. “You said you’d just… come to the front door.”

“Well, I  _ was  _ endeavoring to respect your wishes. I suppose that surprises you.”

“So, wait… it was an empty threat?”

“Don’t test me, child,” Lotor hisses, sending Matt’s heart flying straight into his throat. He really should work on his self-preservation instinct, before the prince of whatever-empire crushes his head between a mile of spandex-covered thighs.

“Got it,” Matt cowers, shoulders fused to his ears at this point. He’s giving what he desperately hopes is a submissive, please-don’t-eat-me smile. “Okay, um, it  _ should _ be safe to sneak into the basement now. After family time we all kind of, you know, go back to our hobbies?” Matt wipes at the dot of sweat gathering at his temple. “I said I’d be busy unpacking,”

“What is your entry plan,” Lotor growls quietly, still looking rather predatory with unnaturally bright eyes.

“Heh heh, uh, that’s the easy part,” Matt points. “Back door.”

“Simple as that?” Lotor looks at him skeptically and, when Matt doesn’t say anything further, the alien scoffs. “At some point, I insist that we discuss what all of this fuss was about.”

^^^

“Welcome to my domain!”

As they step off the landing at the bottom of the stairs, Matt sweeps his hand dramatically past the row of folding tables littered in robotic components in various stages of construction. It’s a jumble of everything he’s ever made that didn’t make it into the boxes he took to the dorms that year, from his earliest designs to the latest experimental models before freshman year.

Matt tries his best in that moment not to overthink the relative state of chaos the place is in. It’s not like Matt knew he was going to bring a fly alien home for the summer, or he absolutely would have tidied up. His mom didn’t raise a  _ complete _ barbarian. 

Classic space-era promo posters complete the scene, tacked to every viable surface. There’s also the small armada of ship models suspended from the ceiling on fishing line, with an even more extensive army of action figures mounted the full length of the waist-height molding and balanced along the high basement window sills. Matt feels a swell of juvenile pride as he concludes his dramatic sweep of the room and looks back over his shoulder at Prince Lotor.

Lotor’s response is decidedly nonplussed. Matt feels his confidence waver as he steps aside to let him pass.

“Okay, okay,” Matt raises his hands defensively, “I know it may not look like much, but I swear, it has a  _ lot _ of potential!”

Lotor raises an eyebrow, still peeved from their prior exchange, but he begins perusing Matt’s collection with what he can only assume to be a polite expression. It’s a start, at least.

Matt was in elementary school when his early tech projects began, his imagination and ensuing experiments slowly but steadily outgrowing his childhood bedroom. Both of his parents were enablers in their own ways. Little by little, Matt colonized the basement. By the eighth grade, he convinced his parents that he may as well move into the small back bedroom on the basement level, since he practically slept down there already. They relented, reasoning that at least this way their son might bother to stumble to his bed for some much-needed horizontal rest once in a while.

Lotor holds up a walkie-talkie, fiddling with the controls.

“Needs batteries,” Matt mutters.

“Ah,” Lotor nods sagely. “A power source. Is it a communication device?” 

“A toy, really. It’s short-range.”

“How do you communicate across your planet?”

Matt blinks. “I mean, dad has email at work because, you know,  _ government. _ We’ll be getting dial-up at home soon. Mostly, you, um, pick up the phone.” He scratches the back of his neck.

Lotor carries on poking at Matt’s various projects, commenting on primitive robotics and volleying occasional questions. The prince tries and fails to hide his amusement; it is condescending, but only gently.

Maybe this  _ is _ all a little embarrassing. 

“It’s kind of a family thing, I guess,” Matt cringes through a laugh. “Pidge has the whole attic. Mom even had AC installed up there for summers. Mom has her studio and her garden. Dad’s office at the Garrison is legendary.”

Lotor continues to pick at the odds and ends in front of him. 

“Humans are… an industrious race, it would seem.”

“Um, right. We are probably not your normal American family.”

“American? Ah, wait, I heard this term on your radio. This refers to your primitive nationalism, does it not?”

Matt titters another laugh. “You really don’t beat around the bush, do you?” Lotor gives him a blank look in response to the expression, until Matt waves it away. “Never mind.”

“Well,” Lotor continues, “I will say that I had begun to fear that I would be stranded on your planet for the foreseeable future, based on your combustion engines alone,” Lotor’s eyes glitter with what can only be snark.

“Hey,” Matt grins despite his mock-offense, “I accept no criticism where Maxine is concerned.”

“My mistake,” Lotor replies, now grinning himself. “I will endeavor to remember this guideline.” While he says it, the prince takes a particular interest in a cybernetic component Matt designed last summer. It makes his chest swell a little with pride. 

“Some of these items are quite innovative,” Lotor says, setting it back down. “It’s a pity that your people are capable of so much and yet you live in such squalor.”

Matt opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut. “I mean, you’re not wrong,” a laugh bubbles out of his chest. Lotor turns to face him, looking enormous under the low basement ceilings. At least he doesn’t have to duck to fit, or not quite. 

“Alright, that’s the whole tour, I guess. So are you, like, vegetarian or anything?”

Lotor cocks his head. It’s absurd. How is seven feet of purple alien beef just so… cute. Or he was just going mental.

“I mean,” Matt grasps for some context to provide. “I saved you a dinner plate? Upstairs, I’ll go get it, but if you, um, don’t each chicken, I’ll figure out something else. I don’t want to offend or anything.”

Lotor perks up quicker than expected. “I am certain that something of your cuisine will suit me just fine. I am rather famished, actually.”

Matt breathes a little easier at that. “Good, good, I’ll uh- I’ll be right back.”

^^^

While Matt hauls boxes inside from his car in the driveway, Lotor works his way through everything on the heaping plate Matt brought down for him. He appears to relish it, actually, once he gets a handle on the use of a fork. He licks his lips and hums a bit at the flavor.

“The prince likes chicken,” Matt comments in good humor as he passes nearby to set a box of components where it’ll be most useful in his shop. It may look like chaos, but he maintains that he knows exactly where everything is.

“This is exceptional,” Lotor dabs a napkin at his lips as he swallows.

Matt reaches for his finished plate. “I’d give your compliments to the chef, but mom isn’t quite ready to meet alien guests.” 

Lotor gets up from his chair, tossing his hair over his shoulder and combing it absentmindedly with his fingers as he studies Matt’s collection of hand-painted Star Wars and Star Trek action figures. He pricks his finger at Darth Vader's hard plastic lightsaber experimentally.

All of the irritation from earlier seems to have vanished from Lotor’s massive frame, seeming now as polite and good-humored as when Matt had first nearly mowed him down on the roadway. 

_ Note to self, do not let the alien prince get too hungry in the future. _ It appears  _ hangry _ is a universality.

“Now,” Matt claps his hands together, “where to hide you?”

Lotor raises an eyebrow again, but this time his expression is searching and sincere. “You truly believe you will be successful at concealing me from your closest kin?”

Matt blinks up at nearly seven feet of majestic purple alien royalty in form-hugging space spandex and breaks a sweat at the mere thought. 

“Ah. Well, no. Er. not for long, but- one thing at a time, alright? I’m gonna have to… figure out how to break the news so mom and dad won’t flip.”

Lotor nods. “Alright, Earthling. Then I will follow your lead.”

“Also,” Matt eyes him more closely for a moment, “we should definitely get you some clothes tomorrow. Unless we’re going to work on the superhero street actor angle,” he chuckles. “Which, considering the purple skin and Lothlórien hair, may not be a bad idea.”

“I sincerely doubt that I will fit any of your attire,” Lotor replies placidly. “Unless you are the runt of the family?”

“No,” he snickers in spite of himself, “I guess that’d be Pidge.” Matt groans as he stretches overhead. “It’s fine, we’ll just… go to the mall. It’ll be totally fine.” 

_ Tomorrow’s problem. _

“Okay, this way,” Matt ushers his alien guest back toward the stairs where there is a unobtrusive door in the wood-paneled wall. He swings it open and takes a step inside. In that single step, the toes of his brand new sneakers dip under the frame of the full size bed that takes up almost the entire room.

“If you, uh, sleep diagonally you just might fit,” Matt mutters. It’s perhaps the stupidest thing he’s said all day, and that’s really saying something.

Lotor looks confused for a moment when Matt looks back.

“And where will you sleep? This is quite clearly  _ your _ nest.”

“Nest?” Matt squeaks. His hindbrain did  _ not _ need  _ that _ visual.

“Your private quarters, then,” the prince intones, voice almost buttery in a way he hadn’t heard before. “I’m afraid I don’t know your sleeping customs.”

“Oh, uh,” Matt scratches his fingernails through the tangle of hair at the nape of his neck. “There’s the couch! And- I don’t sleep very much. And, besides, I,” he darts out the door frame, quite a feat with Mister-Larger-Than-Life standing there practically filling the frame just with the width of his shoulders. Lotor had to duck his head through the door.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch, and stand guard,” Matt croaks as he retreats. “Just in case!”

^^^


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artist: [Toy / eventoysneedluv](https://twitter.com/eventoysneedluv) made the _sweetest_ Lotor and Matt mall date art, I love it forever and always. Read on to see!
> 
> Beta: [awkwardspaceturtle](https://twitter.com/justiceixwrites) ♡♡♡

Lotor sleeps his usual four vargas a night and wakes long before the earthling has even stirred. 

It is dark beyond the dwelling, and mostly dark inside, as well. It is an odd hour to be awake, it appears, which suits Lotor’s purposes just fine. He takes the opportunity to explore more of the residence, hoping among other things to discover the bathing facilities.

The Galra are not known for stealth, or at least the imperial forces are not, but Lotor has trained in many martial disciplines. He is adept at remaining unseen when he means to.

At the top of the basement stairs, he finds a utility room of some sort, possibly for meal preparation from the smell of food stores. From there, a sort of broad conference table made of wood, and a room full of soft furnishings for gathering and making conversation.

Lotor tries another flight of stairs, finding a hallway of closed doors and an almost-pained sound of rumbled breathing behind one in particular. The prince hopes this is simply a symptom of human slumber, for the individual’s sake. 

He retreats back to the main floor to try the remaining hallway. There’s a small room with a desk and more components of _Earth technology,_ Lotor thinks with derision. He’ll be lucky if he makes it off of this rock in thirty deca-phoebs, if they’ll have to develop the necessary capabilities first. 

Lotor finds the last door is a room he can’t really identify, except by deduction. It smells of minerals and standing water, the space arranged with smooth white stoneware with metal piping.

The space must be for bathing, particularly the basin that is partially enclosed with a privacy screen of transparent polymer.

By now, Lotor knows better than to expect anything voice-operated. He starts poking and prodding at the mechanical setup until something swivels and water comes pouring out at ankle-height.

Lotor eyes the scene. There is a nozzle overhead, but no sensible mechanism remains for activating it which Lotor hasn’t tried. Growing weary of the game, he almost resigns himself to waiting for the human to wake up. But then the other humans will be awake, and his host has been so very reluctant to accept that his family will need to meet him eventually. There will be more _delays,_ and worst of all, no shower. And the prince simply can’t face that possibility. Surely he can manage to operate an Earth bathing facility.

While he tries every lever, one of them results in dropping the stopper in the tub so that it begins to fill. Lotor eyes the mediocre length of a human’s tub in comparison to his own considerable height and sighs, but beggars can’t be choosers. If he cannot shower, then he will bathe.

As the tub fills, he twists off the caps of a few bottles lining the small space, choosing one that smells like some sweet confection, and pours a generous amount into the water. Before long, he is stripping off his base layer and sliding into the small but sweet-smelling bath.

Lotor is determined not to let the cramped space ruin his enjoyment of the heated water soaking into his travel-weary muscles. He scrubs his hair with more of the sweet soaps, trying different bottles until something leaves his locks feeling silky and hydrated. He can’t quite get his full legs under the waterline even when seated upright, but he tries that route for a while. Then he decides to shift down until his shoulders are submerged, the back of his head resting on the rim of the tub. This requires walking the soles of his feet a considerable way up the opposite wall of the enclosure. But as his legs steam and slowly cool off and his shoulders relax down in delicious warmth, Lotor really can’t complain. He lets his eyes flutter closed.

Soaking in his triumph, he remains long enough that the water is starting to cool and the heaping suds are only half as fluffy as they were before. He’s considering stepping out, combing his fingers through the damp hair at his scalp, when he hears footsteps.

He doesn’t startle, although his eyes do dart toward the door which is fully closed. The steps grow closer, and Lotor decides that the sound is most likely Matt’s footstep, sounding small and light like the boy. Then before he can take this calculation any further, the door swings open.

“There has to be some confounded reason you are taking this long to freshen up at 3 AM—” A small person freezes in the doorway, bearing a telling resemblance to Matt with gold hair and caramel eyes, but even more petite than the young man.

“You’re not Matt,” the small human deadpans. The lack of adverse reaction is surprising after Matt’s all-too-evident discomfort with disclosing Lotor’s presence to his kin, but Lotor rolls with it seeing as his options are few. He is rather indisposed at the moment.

“I am not Matt,” Lotor answers, stoically reclining in the too-small bath with his legs perched absurdly in the air.

“I just need my toothbrush,” the stranger replies, reaching for something on the counter.

Lotor blinks. “You are not even curious who I am? Why I am here?”

“Uh,” comes the reply. “Well, you’re clearly an alien. And if my brother has anything to do with you being here, that’s pretty on-brand. He was pretty jumpy at dinner. Mom gave him the third degree, but she figured she was sniffing out some sketchy experiment that she wouldn’t want going wrong in her basement. Off-chance of a girlfriend, maybe a boyfriend…” the human trails off, eyeing Lotor critically. “Matt’s really outdone himself this time.”

Lotor gapes at this speech.

“You say this is… in-pattern for your brother?”

The small human laughs. “For sure, that’s Matt. Obsessed with aliens. Science _and_ science fiction, it’s his whole world.”

“But I thought your people were not accustomed to other species. Matt said—”

“Well, that never stopped him before,” the sibling replies. “I did think it was weird he was awake. I would just use the upstairs bathroom, but mom has a hard enough time sleeping with the way dad has to snore like a jet engine.”

“Snore?”

“You know,” and with that the small human makes a sound that does not seem possible to come from so miniature a frame, loud and nasal and grating. He recognizes it as a parody of the racket he heard in the upstairs corridor.

“Ah,” Lotor agrees. No light craft engine he’s aware of makes such a barbaric sound.

“I’m Katie, by the way,” they raise a hand in an unfamiliar gesture that seems mild and friendly. “But most of the fam calls me Pidge. Matt started it. You can call me that, too. You know, to fit in.”

Lotor raises his hand, mimicking the gesture of greeting he received. “And you may call me Lotor. It’s a pleasure,” he smiles. Something about the smile must be unnerving to humans, he realizes a moment too late. The little one takes a half step back.

“Sure, well,” Pidge mumbles, “I’ll leave you to it. Um. Do you need a towel?”

Lotor blinks. “What is a towel?”

“To dry off with? Here,” they pull a folded textile from a shelf, resting it on one of the fixtures nearby. Pidge then eyes the strange position of his legs, as if noticing an oddity for the first time. “You know, you might prefer showers. Way better fit.”

Lotor grinds his teeth on a forced smile, not willing to admit his failed attempt to master the bathing facility. He is perfectly content with this outcome, thank you very much. Or he was, at least until the water became decidedly lukewarm.

“I will keep that in mind.”

^^^

When Matt wakes, Lotor is already dressed head-to-toe in his Imperial Space Lord armor and Matt is TIRED.

At least _someone_ looks fresh and alert. And that’s without any caffeine. Lotor sits perched on Matt’s trusty old desk chair reading the Star Trek Compendium cover-to-cover. It’s… just a lot to take in.

“Sleep well?”

Matt makes a probably inhuman sound which holds no particular meaning besides acknowledging that he is awake and doesn’t quite want to be.

Lotor frowns at him. “Are you not well?”

Matt presses up to squint at him, and means to say ‘I’m fine’ but it comes out more of an inflected grunt. Stretching his neck feels unreasonably good, though. The couch isn’t as nice for sleeping as Matt remembers from high school. Then he yawns.

“Ah,” Lotor acknowledges, catching up to the nature of Matt’s ailment. “Well, when you are ready, I have some questions about the bathing facilities.”

Okay, he does feel a little guilty that he hasn’t been the best host. “Oh, I- uh,” he croaks. “I suppose you’d like to take a shower.”

“Precisely, yes. The little one— Pidge, I think was the name— suggested showers. I will require your assistance.”

Matt’s gears are still turning slowly. Very. Slowly. But he thought he heard his sibling’s name just now, and assisting with the prince’s bathing sounds just— nope.

_What the hell._

“Pidge?” Matt manages to squeak.

“Yes, I was in your bath when they found me, but do not be alarmed. They were fairly… nonplussed, I suppose you might say.”

“At… you in the bath?”

Lotor’s expression pinches in annoyance. “At meeting an alien that you were hiding in your basement.”

“Not hiding very well,” Matt grumbles. “You know what, no—” He holds up his hand, meaning either halt or surrender, he’s not sure. “I definitely need coffee for this conversation.”

“What is this _coffee_?”

Matt gives his regal guest a judgmental look as he pries his sleep-rumpled self off of the sofa. “Trust me, you don’t need any.”

Matt heads to the stairs without further comment, if ‘comment’ were limited to actual words. He doubles back when he sees the prince is actually reading the first edition of the Compendium when the second release with all those factual corrections is _right there._

Lotor follows Matt’s pointer finger to the other volume’s cover, hums in agreement and trades one for the other immediately.

To Matt’s surprise, earning his genuine admiration, the prince starts over at the beginning without question.

^^^

Matt fills a mug with mom’s extra-strong brew and a generous glug of creamer. The coffee’s still hot, which is good, and also bad because it means someone’s still around—

“So I met your secret alien.”

Matt winces at the sound of Pidge’s voice, quickly whirling around on them and shushing as if his life depended on it.

“Chill, okay? It’s not like I’m gonna tell on you.” Pidge’s arched eyebrow actually gives Matt a pang. He missed this. He missed home.

“Alright,” he grumbles, sighing in honest relief. “I’m screwed, right?”

Pidge scoffs. “If you thought _hiding him_ was a good idea? Yes, you are. You won’t last another day getting past mom.”

“Maybe I can be sneaky,” he smirks. “Maybe you wouldn’t know. You know, if I was.”

“Are we having the same conversation? _I caught you_. And it’s _mom,”_ Pidge drawls. “You’re better off getting it over with.”

Matt can’t suppress the laugh that bubbles out of him. “And what do I say?”

“‘Mom, meet my alien boy toy,’” Pidge mocks.

Matt sputters. “But he’s not!”

Pidge eyes him hard, then shrugs. “Maybe he should be,” they say as they walk away.

“What does that even _mean?”_ Matt groans.

^^^

The mall is crowded, judging by hunting the parking lot until Matt finally pulls into an empty space. The Galran prince unfolds himself from the compact car and surveys the scene before him with just the hint of a smile. 

He wouldn’t admit to it, Matt is sure, but the prince looks excited to have a look around on a strange new world.

“Okay, remember,” Matt shoots the prince a look. “If anyone asks, you just say you’re here from the 23rd century and looking for a humpback whale. Got it?”

“This is an overly elaborate lie, human.” 

“I’m telling you, it’ll totally work. Everyone loves a good Star Trek movie. Oh, and do the hand thing for me again?”

Lotor raises one hand in a split-fingered salute. “Live long and prosper.”

Matt cackles. “The eyebrow arch is wicked, honestly. You could be Spock’s purple brother.”

Lotor shakes his head but he gives Matt an easy smile. It’s… nice. They approach the mall’s sliding doors side-by-side in good spirits. 

Lotor’s enthusiasm doesn’t last, though. Matt turns him loose on the men’s section of Sears, giving him a chance to find something he’d like to wear. The expression on Lotor’s face sours with every passing minute.

“Why are these fabrics heavy and stiff? They must be unbearable in this climate.”

“That’s denim,” Matt answers, eyeing the jean jacket as Lotor strokes his fingers down the length of the sleeve with a discriminating frown. 

“It’s coarse.”

“It’s _rugged,_ ” Matt laughs. “Only, you don’t wear a jean jacket with jeans,” he says as he points at the pants already tucked into their shopping cart.

“Why ever not?”

“It, like, matches too much.”

Lotor looks appalled. “Is it not the point to coordinate one’s attire?”

Matt feels his eyebrows reach for his hairline and tries in vain to will them back down. It would most likely not go over well if he were to laugh in the prince’s face. “Um no, and… yes?”

Lotor looks skyward as if pleading for assistance on high. Who knew aliens also rolled their eyes?

“Here,” Matt reaches for some tees and a couple colors of vests in generous sizes, splaying them out in the care. “You can try some things on. That’ll help. Which of these designs do you like best?”

Lotor wrinkles his nose. “None of them.”

“Come on,” Matt pleads, unable to keep the smile entirely out of his voice. “Just try?”

“I—“ Lotor cuts himself off with a pout. It’s unfair that Matt is doing his best puppy dog eyes, maybe, but a guy’s gotta do what’s necessary. 

“Fine.” Lotor flicks his hair a bit with a sharp turn of the head, one defiant strand bobbing over his forehead.

^^^

Matt thought convincing the prince to try something on would be the answer, but he just keeps striking out. He reminds himself it’s been a while since breakfast and that it’s a really good idea to not let the Galran grow hungry; he’ll definitely only get crankier if he does, and Matt might really pay for the oversight.

But the prince needs clothes, dammit. Ones that don’t look like something out of a niche imported anime. As Lotor nears the end of the clothing pile he has been feeding him, Matt starts to grow desperate. So far the only thing Lotor took any interest in whatsoever was a three-piece suit he passed on the way to the dressing room, but that was _definitely_ outside the budget. Because at this point, being frankly ridiculous isn’t reason enough to say no. Matt will accept anything that he has the dough for.

Then they wander past leisure wear, and the prince’s breath catches. Maybe Matt is getting worn thin at this point, but he jumps at the sound.

Lotor is petting— yes, _petting_ — both hands over a tracksuit jacket in obnoxiously bright colors, palms smoothing down to the matching pants. The colors are loud enough to leave Matt dizzy, but Lotor looks like he’s about to groan in pleasure.

“What is this?” Lotor’s voice is far too breathy for athleisure.

“It’s a tracksuit.” Matt brightens up, willing some forced enthusiasm to the surface for Lotor’s sake. He has to sell it. This is the only chance he’s got. “You like it?”

“It is exquisite,” Lotor murmurs, deeply absorbed. “And the trousers match, as they should,” he flashes Matt a devastating grin, teeth just a bit sharper than he’s ready for. “This is certainly a superior option. Alas,” the prince trails off with a sigh as he moves to let the jacket go.

Matt rushes forward to clap his hands right where they are. “ _Alas_ nothing, it’s perfect. Looks like they even have your size, which is a major miracle—”

“But these garments must cost a fortune!” Lotor protests. Matt isn’t sure how to break it to his guest that this glorified windbreaker couldn’t be further from the cost of even an off-the-rack suit. He’ll have some leftover cash at this rate, enough to hit the food court and maybe a matinee of Ghostbusters II.

“Don’t sweat it,” Matt encourages him forward with a hand at the small of Lotor’s back. “Go on. You’ll need a change of clothes, so why don’t you pick out two?”

Lotor looks downright awed at the offer. But the prince can’t resist the smile that pulls at his mouth, twisting his lips into an almost devilish grin. He looks every bit like a big purple cat who caught a very nice mouse. 

The prince chooses three color combinations of tracksuits, each one more flamboyant than the last. He calls them _sleek_ and Matt bites back a snort, sighing in relief as they finally move off toward the checkout line. 

At least until Lotor veers left into _intimates,_ stopping right in front of a bright blue piece of silk and lace. There are words for things like this, words that Matt knows from daytime television or maybe commercials for Victoria’s Secret. Words like _camisole_ and _romper_ and _teddy._ But Matt can’t call any of those words to mind while Lotor is looking so intently at the racy little thing that apparently caught his eye.

Fuck, he is still looking.

And now he’s touching it. _Petting it_.

Good lord.

“Um, we should get going,” Matt sing-songs, and the sound is grating even to his own ears. He hopes passers-by are not staring. They are most definitely staring.

Matt must have blacked out for a moment there, because when he comes to Lotor is holding the silky thing up to his own torso to gauge the size. He gives it a little tug to test the stretch and smiles. Matt swallows his tongue.

“Matt, would this—”

He cannot face this conversation, so he doesn’t. He tugs the scrap of lace from Lotor’s hands and drops it into their cart, unable to spare a single brain cell to consider why Lotor even wants it, whether he would ever fit into it if that’s actually his intention, or what kind of underwear people wear in deep space. 

All Matt knows is that he’s buying the Galran prince a nightie.

“Spoil me, why don’t you,” Lotor coos under his breath, sounding all too satisfied.

And if those words jolt right to Matt’s cock in the checkout line at Sears, absolutely no one needs to know about it.

^^^

Lotor changes into his new Earth garments, preening at the pleasing colors against his lavender skin. The human suggests a bite of food before they depart and, while the prince wouldn’t deign to complain, nothing in this _Food Court_ smells even half so appetizing as the plate that came from the Holts’ kitchen the night before and also this morning with what Matt termed _leftovers._

The place smells like stale cooking oil and much of the food on display either looks like cardboard or suspiciously vivid like an orange slime mold. _Orange Chicken_ seems too apt a descriptor.

Lotor is revolted, until he catches a particular scent.

“Now what is _that_ tantalizing aroma?” he says as he turns, following the scent that appears to be retreating on the tray another guest is carrying back to a bank of short little tables Lotor could almost step over.

“Huh?” Matt looks around. Apparently the human’s senses are not keen enough in this regard. Given Lotor’s superior olfactory skill, he had best take matters into his own hands. 

Lotor makes his way to his quarry’s table in a few hasty strides, looking down on the elder couple where they are leaning over their brown trays and paper plates. Just before the prince moves to speak, the man jabs plastic cutlery into the golden brown pocket of pastry. Lotor is overcome with the heady, savory smell of the molten ingredients inside. His stomach gives a needy lurch.

“Good day, Sir,” Lotor says amicably as the startled couple blinks up at him. 

“Uh, hello?” the man replies, and then thinks better of it. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying any.”

Lotor would feel rebuffed, perhaps, if that reply made any sense at all. And he’s too riveted by the delicious scent to be put off the hunt now.

“I am sorry to disturb your meal,” Lotor begins again courteously, “but I simply must ask how to procure this fare for myself, and for my friend here,” he gestures to Matt who is looking unexpectedly ill, poor boy. He’ll see to him in a moment. “How does one come by such repast?”

“Re- what?” the man sputters. “Are you dense? It’s a calzone. You never heard of calzone?”

“Is _that_ what they call it?” Lotor titters a laugh, pleased as punch. “Tell me everything.”

The man frowns in reply.

“Sbarro,” the woman mutters, pulling Lotor’s attention to her. It’s then that he sees the way her cheeks are flushed and he’s not sure whether this indicates fear or arousal in humans, or possibly both.

“What is a Sbarro?”

She points in the direction of one of the small shops nearby. Before Lotor has time to look, he feels Matt’s hand on his arm.

“That’s the pizza place, man,” Matt laughs nervously, “you remember? Everyone knows Sbarro.” Matt’s voice has that _take-the-hint_ quality about it, which rankles just a bit. Lotor is _not_ an idiot. “You really must have hit your head hard, buddy.”

“Oh, are you hurt?” the woman interjects with genuine concern in her voice. How touching.

“Ah, no,” Lotor answers, “my friend here is just teasing me for my rude behavior, I believe.” Leveling Matt with a look, he returns his focus to the human woman with a bat of the eyes and a tight-lipped smile. “My deepest apologies for my error.” 

He may be laying in on a bit thick, but he’d rather be remembered for his charms than for his blunder. Besides, he’s dying to see if his theory of human blushing is correct. And it is.

The man appears flushed for a quite different reason— impotent rage, most likely. Lotor takes the hint and steps back with a little bow of the head. 

Matt’s grip on his arm relaxes just slightly. “C’mon, let’s get you that calzone you wanted and an Orange Julius. Right this way.”

When they are well out of earshot and purchasing provisions, Matt still doesn’t speak his mind. Perhaps he requires a little nudge.

“Was that out of line?”

Matt’s eyes flash to his before quickly looking away again. “I, uh,” he starts and stops. “Were you teasing her?”

Lotor tries to school his answering smirk, to no avail. Onto him already, it seems— delightful.

“Maybe just a little. I meant no harm, but she was… easily provoked.”

Matt shakes his head then, sputtering a laugh. “You’re a little bastard, aren’t you? Warped, man. Are you trying to be the death of me? Now here,” he half-shoves the plastic tray into Lotor’s hands, playfully but not entirely lacking heat. “Eat up.”

The piping-hot pastry captures his full attention, complete with fillings that Matt calls _marinara_ and _cheese_ spilling onto the plate as Lotor carves it open with flimsy cutlery and forks up a suitable bite. The burst of savory flavor is so good, well-spiced and just divine. Lotor hums in pleasure.

When he looks up, he finds that Matt has only just barely touched his meal, watching Lotor furtively between unconvincing attempts to shift bites around on his plate.

“Something on your mind?”

“Nope,” Matt replies, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Lotor _can_ take a hint.

“So,” Lotor reaches for the first _other_ topic he can think of. “How does one usually conclude an outing such as this?”

Matt hazards a bit of a smile. “Are you, like, studying human society or what?”

Lotor barks a laugh. “Why of course,” he tosses his hair and gives the Earthling a judgemental look. “Wouldn’t you, were our positions reversed?”

Matt nods in confession. “Yes. Yes, I would.” He glances around, drumming his fingers on the formica table. “Well, after shopping, I might go browse for music, pick up some tapes. Oh, or there’s the movie theater! We could go see the new Star Trek. You know, help you get into your role,” Matt teases with a wink.

“You’ve thought of everything, it seems,” Lotor answers dryly.

Matt balks. “Was that _snark?”_

_Oh, please._

“I’m sorry, but were you under the impression that humans invented sarcasm? I hate to break it to you, dear child,” Lotor continues with mock solemnity, “but it’s a great big universe out there.”

^^^

Matt leads the way from the food court in the direction of the mall theatre, an effort that is immediately derailed as Lotor hears the sound of laughter and veers toward the rail to look down at the skating rink below.

“I did not realize your species used wheeled footwear for locomotion.”

Matt chuckles. “No, no, it’s not _transportation._ Those are roller skates. It’s for _fun.”_

Lotor’s eyes remain transfixed on the scene below, trying to make heads or tails of the chaos. 

“What is the objective of this game?”

“Objective?”

“How does one claim victory over the playing field?”

Matt chokes on a mouthful of Orange Julius. Wheezing, he manages to sputter an answer. “Okay, um, first rule? No ‘slaying foes’ or anything while you’re on Earth. Okay? And second, well, it’s not a competition. There’s no winner.”

“One wears gliding footwear for entertainment, with no purpose whatsoever?”

“ _Fun_ is the purpose. Please don’t tell me that aliens have sarcasm but not fun.”

Lotor ponders this in silence, as Matt’s jaw slowly drops.

“No, no, unacceptable,” Matt throws up his hands. “No movie. You have to try roller skating.”

“But I thought I was to study this ‘Spock’ and learn my lines, to better blend in with your culture?”

“Nope, sorry, that’s way too purposeful,” Matt answers, already shepherding the prince onto the escalator down to the lower level. “You are overdue for some pure, honest fun.”

Lotor plays along amicably as Matt pays their admission and rents two pairs of skates, one in Lotor’s size. He even accepts the hair tie Matt offers him. It’s only once he has laced his feet into one of the two wheeled boots, feeling it glide on the carpeted floor, that the prince’s expression starts to change. He’s concentrating. He’s evaluating.

He’s worried.

“Is the size okay?” Matt asks.

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Lotor answers as though everything is fine. But by the time his second foot is laced in, he is definitely frowning.

“Okay,” Matt wobbles to his feet. He can skate just fine, based on a lifetime of weekly skate nights. It’s just been a while. Matt laughs as he steadies himself, holding his hand out to the prince. “Let’s go try this.”

Lotor’s mouth hangs open. “But- what are the operating instructions?”

“Uh, I dunno,” Matt shrugs as he fumbles for an answer, “you just figure it out as you go?”

“Unacceptable.”

Matt pulls up short at Lotor’s tone, which does not help his own balance. He teeters and collects himself just time. “Don’t worry so much! I’ll be with you.”

Lotor eyes him sourly. “Your performance is not inspiring confidence, either.”

“Ouch,” Matt laughs. “C’mon. I can’t just explain it, but it won’t be so bad. It’s the only way to learn. You have to feel it. And besides, figuring it out is part of the _fun.”_ Matt can’t repress his smirk as he extends his hand to Lotor again.

With a sigh, Lotor shifts forward in his seat until he’s poised to climb to his feet and takes the offered hand. “Fun _is_ our mission, so I suppose I cannot refuse.”

“That’s the spirit!” Matt beams at him.

Lotor launches to his feet a bit too energetically, overshooting where Matt thought he would steady him. Flailing forward with pinwheeling arms, and barely missing at least a few innocent bystanders, he’s a bit like a purple Acme rocket until Matt manages to catch up to him and corner him against the hip-high wall around the rink. 

Lotor catches himself on the rail with both hands while Matt pins him there by the arms and the press of his hips. It isn’t quite a body slam, but close.

“Whoa, whoa!” Matt pants, rolling up beside the prince, still with one hand on his back to let him know he’s there. Meeting the prince’s eyes, he expects to find anger there. The Galran’s eyes are more slitted than before, but the flush looks more like excitement, even exhilaration.

“And you still believe this is a good idea?” Lotor clings to the rail like a lifeline.

“Of course! I won’t give up that easily.” Matt offers a small smile. “Getting started is the hardest part. But I’ll be right there the whole time. Do you trust me?”

Lotor looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. That scrutiny in that look makes Matt’s pulse flutter, but he won’t look away first. Finally, Lotor nods.

“I will trust you.”

“Okay, good! That’s good,” Matt mumbles, moving his hand from Lotor’s back to take the prince’s hand again. “And, um. How ‘bout slower this time?”

“Slower,” Lotor repeats with a shudder.

^^^

There is almost nothing Lotor hates more than the feeling of losing control.

He hates his tyrant father a good deal more, and that hag who does his bidding, with far more compelling reason for his loathing. But surely, after family and genocide and an intergalactic war, this inept flailing has to be the next-worst thing.

Still wobbling like a capreolini’s firstborn, he tentatively lifts his hand from the wall. It’s not long before he reaches for it again, doubting his mastery of these infernal contraptions strapped to his feet.

And yet, for how unpleasant that sensation is, there is something about Matt hovering close by and his warm hand holding his that makes the prince not mind it so very much.

Never mind the youth’s surprising aptitude and decisiveness in his moment of need. It had certainly been a long time since anyone had _caught_ him, Galra or otherwise. Or slammed him into a hard surface, for that matter. He might’ve liked that part a bit more than anticipated.

“See, look at you go! You haven’t even fallen yet!”

“I thought the point was not to fall,” Lotor replies, concentrating hard on the feeling of pushing off his wheels, alternating feet like he’s seen others around them do. He lifts his hand from the wall again, squeezing Matt’s a bit tighter.

“No, the _point_ is just to have _fun,”_ Matt reminds him. “And if you do fall, which would be totally normal, then as long as you can laugh it off then you’re still doing it right.”

Lotor smiles a little to himself. He _is_ enjoying himself, in spite of everything. With the permission to stumble and chalk it up in the name of fun, the prince pushes off the wall with a sly grin over at Matt.

“There you go! You’re doing it!” Matt grins up at him with his warm gold eyes. “I knew you could do it, see?”

^^^

Matt watches Lotor take a few tentative strides away from the wall, wobbling like a foal with a guileless smile. It’s rather sweet.

He wants to shake himself and clear the unruly thought from his head, but what good would that do? It’ll be right back, Matt knows, with the next look, the next tease or touch. _Shit._ He cannot deal with this stupid flutter in his chest and what that possibly-probably means.

The prince is getting the hang of the footwork— very quickly, in fact. He’s kind of a natural. And telling him so makes the Galran preen with pride, so Matt spares no expense on the praise as they complete one loop after another to Planet Patrol and the latest Prince album.

Lotor tilts forward a bit too far, scuttling his feet to catch himself, while Matt hurries ahead to prop up both of his hands out in front, skating backwards. Lotor’s eyebrows fly up.

“That is impressive.”

Matt grins, checking their path over his shoulder before returning his attention to Lotor. The prince is not subtle about studying the movement of Matt’s feet.

“Forward first,” Matt laughs, “then we do turns, then backwards. At this rate, you’ll be king of the ring before dinner.”

“But it is not a competition,” Lotor deadpans.

“Maybe a _little_ bit of competition wouldn’t hurt.” Matt winks at him.

“In the name of fun,” Lotor agrees. Then he’s side-stepping Matt’s position and venturing ahead on his own. It’s not long before he has to dodge a stumbling tween, and Matt fears the worst until he realizes Lotor already leaned into a little turn, course-correcting smoothly.

“Holy cow,” Matt yelps, catching up to him again. “Uh, I’d say you’ve about cracked the code on roller skating. How’d you figure that out so fast?”

“Galra are known for their prowess on the battlefield,” Lotor answers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. “We also learn through pain. Suffice it to say that on my homeworld, one learns quickly not to make the same mistake twice.”

Matt takes a break to track down a drinking fountain. When he turns back around, Lotor is flying past with great speed and confidence. He’s graceful, all long lines and rippling power, like this is the Grand Prix and not some mall rink in middle America.

Matt lets himself get lost in it, hovering by the wall and whooping excitedly like a fan in the stands. It’s electrifying. His heart races with it.

The shrill cry of a whistle shatters the image, as Lotor sweeps into an admittedly dramatic hockey stop a mere foot from the safety monitor with the official orange polo and an unamused glare. Matt hurries over.

“Think you’re funny, hot shot? Slow down!”

Lotor immediately schools his features into a polite mask, but Matt can tell when the alien is ticked off. So much for fun.

“My apologies, good sir. I’m unfamiliar with your customs. What is the maximum allowable velocity?”

“Cut the crap, jerkoff. Speed skate at 6pm, so save it. Family hours until then.”

Lotor opens his mouth to reply, but Matt interrupts by not-so-subtly stumbling into the safety monitor’s backside, flailing for affect. 

“Shit, sorry! Sorry!” Matt calls. “Didn’t see ya standing there!”

Lotor’s eyes sharpen at Matt and he knows he’s been caught, but at least it works. After leveling Matt with a glare, Mr. Safety Watch skates off.

Matt circles back around and pats Lotor’s arm when he catches up to him. “Don’t worry about him,” he suggests. “Dude gets paid to not have fun.”

Lotor sneers, “How unfortunate.”

“You, though!” Matt gestures a bit goofily at the figure he cuts in his tricolor track suit and a mile of leg on wheels. “You had fun, right?”

Lotor extends his hand to Matt, palm-up like the helping hand that Matt had offered him. It’s so painfully charming and frankly does something weird to Matt’s insides. Slowly, Matt places his hand in the prince’s, thrilling at the happy little squeeze Lotor gives in response.

“Yes,” Lotor answers. “Yes, thanks to you.”

^^^

“Your Earth cuisine is really exceptional,” the prince tells Matt as the young man offers another of those so-called _chicken wings_ from the paper bucket shared between them.

They’re in Matt’s basement again, assorted food cartons balanced on the sofa and in their laps. Lotor has already found that he dislikes _cole slaw_ and prefers the _mashed potatoes_. But Matt is very accommodating and trades their sides like it is no hardship.

Matt shrugs at the compliment. “It’s just Kentucky Fried Chicken. It’s hardly home cooking.”

“Does cooking in one’s home imbue the meal with special properties?”

The answering laugh is familiar, and Lotor has to remind himself that it has only been most of two quintants— days?— that he’s known this Earthling. Already he’s categorizing each of his laughs and all their varied moods. This one is charitable and fond.

“I mean, no, it doesn’t. But it’s just— it’s better, okay?”

Then Lotor is laughing, too. He indulges, knowing full well it is mostly a consequence of hearing the other laugh. It is… nice. Maybe he can have something nice.

“These are still good, though,” Matt says tapping the chicken bucket. “The rest are yours, I’m stuffed.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have had two dinners,” Lotor observes with a smirk. He takes the offered bucket and makes short work of the remaining breaded drumsticks, licking salt and fry oil from his fingers with a relish.

Matt leans back against the arm of the sofa and groans as he stretches overhead.

“Easy for you to say. Mom will suspect me for sure if I don’t each family dinner, especially on a weekend when dad is home and I’ve been at college all year. And I can’t keep swiping a loaded second plate from under mom’s nose, or she’s definitely going to catch on.”

Lotor studies him, wondering what it is about human family life that he’s missing. This seems to be a very low-stakes game to have the boy so worked up.

“Your sibling was not troubled by my presence.”

“Yeah well, Pidge is a special case.”

“And why is that?”

“I dunno. Because they’re, well, weird.”

Lotor smiles. “Like you.”

“Yeah, like me, asshole.” Matt lobs a crumpled napkin at him. Lotor grimaces his distaste and flicks it away. “Humans don’t always like… strangers. You’re pretty lucky you found us.”

Lotor feels something tighten in his chest. Because he _is_ lucky; he knows it. Whether yesterday on the highway or today at the skating rink, Matt didn’t hesitate— not when it mattered. Lotor can’t think of the last time someone went out of their way for him.

When Matt meets his eyes, something of this must show on Lotor’s face. He watches as Matt’s golden eyes soften.

“I am lucky it was you,” Lotor says.

Matt rolls his eyes. “Hey, don’t get sappy on me! And besides,” Matt glances away. “I feel pretty lucky too.”

^^^

**Author's Note:**

> Mattor friends, if any of you exist, find me on [**twitter**](https://twitter.com/bioplast_hero)!
> 
> Other Lotor works by this author:
> 
>   * Leithal threesome [Hers, Thine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874854)
>   * Lotura ABO [Lotus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079196)
>   * Keitor sparring [Back For More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202277)
>   * Mattor fear boner [The Lies We Tell Ourselves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130469)
>   * Shotor fwb [Unspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127079)
>   * Sheitor voyeurism [His Eyes Only](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26123509)
>   * Lotorcest noncon [Asymmestry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081176)
> 

> 
> I love comments of any kind, including emoji dances and keysmashes— all welcome. Thank you for reading. 🧡💜


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